<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>June 22, 1979: The Death of Chamberlain, Maine &amp; the Subsequent Birth of Eddie Kaspbrak by Flanemoji</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510761">June 22, 1979: The Death of Chamberlain, Maine &amp; the Subsequent Birth of Eddie Kaspbrak</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji'>Flanemoji</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Creative Destruction &amp; Destructive Creation (Carrie!Eddie AU) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Descriptions of Blood, Familial Abuse, M/M, Multi, carrie au, descriptions of violence, eddie is carrie white, more tags as deemed necessary, referenced/ past abuse, religous trauma, supernatural powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510761</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flanemoji/pseuds/Flanemoji</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <span class="u">⚠ ⚠ ⚠ ALERT ⚠ ⚠ ⚠</span><br/><br/><i>CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY ADVISORY</i></p>
  <p> </p>
  <p><span class="u">JUNE 22, 1979. 9:47 P.M.</span><br/>ALL CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE</p>
  <p><span class="u">JUNE 22, 1979. 10:12 P.M.</span><br/>INCLEMENT WEATHER WARNING UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE:<br/><br/>REPORTS OF HAIL, LIGHTENING, EARTHQUAKES, AND MAJOR FIRES </p>
  <p><span class="u">JUNE 22, 1979. 10:52 P.M.</span><br/><b>PLEASE AVOID THE FOLLOWING AREAS:</b><br/><br/>THOMAS EWEN CONSOLIDATED HIGH SCHOOL<br/>MAIN STREET<br/>15TH STREET GAS STATION</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <i>COURTESY OF CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY TASK FORCE </i></p>
  <div class="center"></div>
</div>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Creative Destruction &amp; Destructive Creation (Carrie!Eddie AU) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Carline St., Chamberlain, ME</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He does not remember.</p><p>Eddie blinks wet lashes against dim light and takes in his surroundings in blurry vision. He is home, in the bath, submerged in lukewarm water. He rests his hands on the edge of the porcelain, stained maroon with murky water. He rubs his eyes, because the bathtub in his home should be white, and instead, it is red. </p><p>
  <em> Oh… Edward… take that off… please! Red is… red is the devils color! </em>
</p><p>When he bathes, Mama sits by the door and reads him passages from her Book. He sits up in the tub to look for her, but finds her usual seat on the lid of the toilet empty. </p><p>“Mama?” His voice is scratchy and weak, raw like his knees when he kneels in the Prayer Closet. “Mama?” He tries again, squeezing the sides of the tub the way dread squeezes his heart. </p><p>He scans the room, taking in the way the splintered door hangs half off its hinges. The dingy, flower-patterned wallpaper is peeling and burnt, flaking off and swirling in the air with the dust mites. He watches, perfect focus through a magnifying glass, as a piece of it floats around and lands on the water between his legs. He counts the ripples that fan out in slow motion, his breath catching in his throat.</p><p>
  <em> One ripple, two ripples, three, four, five… </em>
</p><p>A quiet, wet gurgle sounds from his left, too quiet to be heard but heard nonetheless. Eddie peers his shaky head over the side of the bathtub, grimey water splashing over onto the lifeless body of Sonia White-Kaspbrak. Dark blood dribbles from her mouth, from the six kitchen knives that stick proudly out of her chest, and Eddie whimpers, his whole body trembling. </p><p>“Mama?” It’s a broken whisper that hangs stagnantly in the air. Her dull eyes stare emptily at the ceiling. The silence crackles around his ears like static. </p><p>“Oh… Oh this isn’t right… this isn’t right…” He brings his knees into his chest and tucks his head between them, hands clasped behind his neck. The buzzing in his ears feels like it’s getting louder, a low-frequency whistle that shoves its way into the crevices of his brain. “This isn’t right, this isn’t right!” </p><p>The mantra does no good against the sounds, against the flashes behind his eyes, against the electric crackles of yellow and the heavy metallic of red. They pass by his mind’s eye fast, a bullet train through the forest, indecipherable and yet perfectly clear.</p><p>A corsage pinned to his chest. Twinkling lights in a gymnasium. Chairs on a stage, facing an audience, a warm hand in his, assuring, comforting, smiling, smiling <em> smiling…laughing </em></p><p>
  <em> Laughing </em>
</p><p>
  <em>      Laughing </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Laughing at him, pointing, bared white teeth, tearing him apart like uncivilized animals, spilling blood all over his shoes and the floor, drenching his brand new suit, so much blood-- </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And is it his blood? Dripping, spreading across shiny wood floors, drenching a dress at his side, satin heels, and they were white, weren’t they? Her dress was white, soft, pure, sacred white...a crumpled heap beside him, like a used, bloodied rag, tossed aside </em>
</p><p>“No, no, no <em> no no… </em>” He digs his fingers into his soggy hair, nails scratching his scalp, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to ground.</p><p><em> on the ground, ignored, avoided, disgusting… disgusting… not him, but them, Them, </em> <b> <em>Them</em> </b> <em> ...disgusting, horrible, vile, uncaring...never cared, they never cared.... </em></p><p><em> “O-Oh, Eddie! Honey, it’s okay, I’m so sorry, let’s--” Her voice is muffled, far away, overshadowed by the words she won’t say, the laughter she holds behind her teeth and under her tongue, a deceitful, poisonous </em> <b> <em>snake</em> </b> <em> -- </em></p><p>The memories wriggle between his eyes, a garden snake that moves between the grass, slotting itself into empty holes and spaces. “No, no<em> nono-- </em>”</p><p><em> She never cared, </em> <b> <em>she never cared</em> </b> <em> , only pity, disdain, indifference, averted eyes, cries for help ignored-- </em></p><p><em> She reaches a hand out--swatting a fly, waving wind away-- and every cell in his body lights up, bright </em> <b> <em>bright</em> </b> <em> , like the electricity that crackles along the floor, through muscles and bones and viscera , like lightbulbs exploding in the ceiling, like fire that erupts from the spilled blood of an innocent lamb...innocent, innocent, </em> <b> <em>innocent</em> </b> <em> --none of them are innocent… all of them were complacent.  </em></p><p>“<em> NO! </em> ” Eddie wails into the emptiness, hitching breath and heavy tears that cause ripples and shakes in the bloody water, bigger and <em> bigger </em>until they are shaped like rocks, until they are cold like hail that rains down from the ceiling through an open hole, crashing against porcelain, breaking through wood floors. Knives stab into his brain, sticking straight up out of his throbbing head the same way they do out of Mama’s rib cage, rusty and unforgiving.  </p><p>It is seconds. It is minutes. It is hours. </p><p>Eddie tries not to remember. </p><p>When he finally steps out of the bathtub, steps over his mother’s body, the water is icy cold and the dawn light filters through dusty windows. He slips into his normal routine: he dries himself off and combs his hair, neatly parting it to one side, a third of the middle. He pulls on his nightshirt and kneels next to his bed. He closes his eyes and prays to God for forgiveness with clasped hands, a bowed head, and a hollow heart. </p><p>He does not want forgiveness. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>⚠ ⚠ ⚠ </b> <b>ALERT </b> <b>⚠ ⚠ ⚠</b> </span>
</p><p>
  <em> CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY ADVISORY </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> JUNE 22, 1979. 9:47 P.M. </em> </span>
</p><p><em> ALL CITIZENS ARE ADVISED TO STAY </em> <em> INDOORS </em> <em> UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> JUNE 22, 1979. 10:12 P.M. </em> </span>
</p><p>
  <em> INCLEMENT WEATHER WARNING UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> REPORTS OF HAIL, LIGHTENING, EARTHQUAKES, AND MAJOR FIRES  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> JUNE 22, 1979. 10:52 P.M. </em> </span>
</p><p>
  <b> <em>PLEASE AVOID THE FOLLOWING AREAS:</em> </b>
</p><p>
  <em> THOMAS EWEN CONSOLIDATED HIGH SCHOOL </em>
</p><p>
  <em> MAIN STREET </em>
</p><p>
  <em> 15TH STREET GAS STATION </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> COURTESY OF CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY TASK FORCE </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>A full day and a half passes before Eddie decides that wallowing in terror and pity will do him no good. </p><p>He starts by gathering every valuable item in the house. There isn’t much: a few bronze crucifixes that Mama had kept in the common room, the fine china she never used, stored in the cabinet, and a set of real silver teaspoons in the third drawer. Half of them are bent into ugly knots, and Eddie can’t help but wonder if he’s to blame for it. </p><p>He sets everything on his nightstand and takes a steadying breath before he moves onto his next task. He steps lightly on creaking floors towards a room he has never dared to enter, the once looming doorway now hanging from it’s hinges. Eddie lifts his hand to knock politely, until Mama’s cold, lifeless eyes flash before his mind. </p><p>He slips into the room like a phantom that doesn’t belong.</p><p>Mama was always secretive with him, locks and keys on everything they owned, so really, he never owned any of it. His mother kept a tight fist on it all, from the food they ate to the books they read… if she didn’t approve of it, Eddie likely couldn’t get his hands on it. Her room had always been off-limits, tightly shut behind her at nine o’clock. </p><p>Once, when Eddie was seven and he was much, much braver, he waited until the late hours of the night to peer in through the keyhole. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but the rush of adrenaline he’d felt after going unnoticed was beyond words...</p><p>As was the beating he’d received the next morning for his sinful behavior. </p><p>Now, nearly eleven years later, Eddie can’t keep his hands from trembling as he raids the tomb of his mother’s nightstand and closet. She also didn’t own much, having once told Eddie that too much material belongings was an affront to the Lord. </p><p>
  <em> “Why own so many things, when He can provide all that you need, Eddiebear?” </em>
</p><p>That being said, she still had more than he ever did, and that included two duffel bags and a small safe that opened under Eddie’s fingers without any effort. Inside is another, more expensive looking crucifix and three rolls of cash, neatly folded and wrapped. He takes it all and returns to his room. He asks God if stealing for a good reason can be forgiven, and he receives no answer. </p><p>He does not enter the bathroom. He does not ask God if that can be forgiven. </p><p>Eddie tucks it all into one of the bags, wrapped in his sleeping clothes and socks. He packs his clothing, a small collection of three or four shirts and two sets of pants, and slips on his old, worn church shoes. That’s what the kids at school had always called them, anyway; Eddie hadn’t been to church in many, many years. </p><p>
  <em> “They don’t teach the Good Lord’s word properly, Eddiebear,” His mother had said once, flipping through her worn, leather bound bible. “You needn’t to be led astray by false preachers.”  </em>
</p><p>Eddie picks up his belongings, his entire life packed neatly into two bags, and looks around his bare room. He stares at the bible and the rosary that sit on his bedside table and debates taking those, as well. He thumbs one of the beads of the rosary, thinking back on all the times he’s clutched it to his heart and begged Jesus for guidance, for answers, for <em> help. </em></p><p>He leaves them both on the table and apologizes to God for not taking them. </p><p>Eddie does not enter the bathroom. He does not apologize to God for it. </p><p>By the time he is standing on the cracked sidewalk in front of his home, the dusk light is filtering through the trees, casting everything in hazy purples and oranges. For a moment, there is sadness that wells in his heart at the thought of leaving it all, this dilapidated house in which he spent his whole life. It was the house his mother and father built together, before he passed. Where he learned to read, and to sew. It was where his father, when Eddie was young, would read passages of the Bible, using funny voices for each narrator. </p><p>It was where his mother would chastise them both for doing so, taking the Good Book in vain. </p><p>Where his mother would beat him for breaking the rules she so painstakingly set, in order to save his soul. Where she would lock him in the Prayer Closet in order to repent. Where she tried to strangle him in the bathtub two days prior. </p><hr/><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>⚠ ⚠ ⚠ </b> <b>ALERT </b> <b>⚠ ⚠ ⚠</b> </span>
</p><p>
  <em> CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY ADVISORY </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> JUNE 24, 1979. 6:18 P.M. </em> </span>
</p><p>
  <em> ALL CITIZENS RESIDING ON CARLINE STREET HAVE BEEN ADVISED TO EVACUATE THE AREA.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <em> JUNE 24, 1979. 6:22 P.M. </em> </span>
</p><p>
  <em> EMERGENCY FIRE SERVICES HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED. AN UNIDENTIFIED BODY HAS BEEN FOUND AT THE SOURCE OF THE FIRE.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> IF YOU HAVE RECENTLY FILED A MISSING PERSONS REPORT, PLEASE <strong>DO NOT CONTACT</strong> THE CHAMBERLAIN POLICE DEPARTMENT.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> COURTESY OF CHAMBERLAIN EMERGENCY TASK FORCE  </em>
</p><hr/><p>When Eddie steps out of the Chamberlain town limits, there is only one road forward.</p><p>He’s never left Chamberlain, Maine. He knows nothing outside of it’s quiet streets and judgmental eyes. He thought maybe, that when he stepped over that threshold, there would be a feeling. </p><p>Relief, fear, excitement, worry.</p><p>There is nothing, like the one road forward. </p><p>So, Eddie walks. </p><p>He walks.</p><p>     And he walks, </p><p>          And he walks and walks and <em> walks </em>.</p><p>Eddie walks until his feet are numb all the way to his ankles, until his knees buckle with every step forward and the asphalt of the road blurs into the darkness of the night. He walks until the numbness spreads through to his brain in a blissful moment of absolute <em> nothing </em> save for exhaustion.</p><p>Eddie walks until he sees the edges of a town, with low little buildings outlined against the rising sun’s light. There is no welcome sign, there is no population number, there is no streetlight and there is no Chamberlain, Maine. </p><p>There <em> is </em> a voice, a soft whisper that nudges at the back of his mind, that beckons him forward and tells him to sit. </p><p>So Eddie sits, with one bag still slung over his shoulder and the other gripped right in his shaky hand. </p><p><em> Welcome, </em> the voice says, <em> rest now.  </em></p><p>And maybe it’s because Eddie has walked for hours, or because he’s desperate for any place that <em> isn’t </em> the ruins of Chamberlain, Maine, but he trusts the voice. </p><p>So Eddie rests his head against the stop sign on the corner of an Unknown town, and he sleeps. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Corner of 1st and Main St., Derry, ME</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“--The fire consumed the entire house on Carline Street, claiming the lives of Sonia White and possibly her son--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mom!</span>
  </em>
  <span> This is so depressing and </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Richie whines, slamming his fork and knife against the dining room table like a toddler. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>hungry!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother shushes him, dismissing his cries of starvation in favor of the nasally newscaster blabbing away on the radio. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“--who has been presumed dead. This loss comes only two days after the tragedy that struck at Thomas Ewan High’s Prom night--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” Richie’s father speaks up, shaking his newspaper to straighten it out, “I heard they’re going to have to move everyone out of that town.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t hear anything with you two around!” Richie’s mother sighs, switching her radio off in defeat. “I swear, neither of you can keep your mouth shut for a second!” She wipes her hands on her apron, even though she hasn’t started to cook anything, giving both boys seated at the table a look of disappointment that quickly shifts to endearment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I recall, darling, that’s what got me our first date. Quick wits and all that.” Wentworth Tozier reaches a hand out to tug her apron and bring her close. She rolls her eyes and pecks his forehead in response. Richie gags.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yuck! Can you guys do that later when I’m not here? Or are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>trying</span>
  </em>
  <span> to traumatize your only child?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His dad laughs, quickly hiding his face in his newspaper to avoid the offended glare his wife shoots him. With Richie the only one exposed, she directs her attention to him, hands on her hips and eyebrows raised. “If you’re so eager for me to start breakfast, why don’t you start the stove up for me, sweetie?” She crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head in the direction of the unlit appliance, a much older one than most that still needs a fire under the coils to get it going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hell yeah!” Richie pumps his fist in the air, jumping from his chair so fast that Wentworth has to put a foot out behind it to keep it from tipping over. He rushes over to his mother’s side and shakes himself out, loosening up the tension that sits on his shoulders.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright, now remember what we practiced. Focus and picture it in your mind.” Maggie places her hands on Richie’s shoulders, easing his stress the way his shaking couldn’t. She steadies him and gives a little squeeze of encouragement before stepping aside to give him some room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right, focus. Focus…” Richie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, in and out. He pictures the stove in his mind, the dark coil and the little spot under where his attention is directed towards. He lifts his hand and imagines what it might look like, a little spark of yellow and a small blob of blue, growing into a steady flame for his mother to cook over. His stomach growls and Richie takes another breath in, eyes scrunched tight and nose wrinkled. He lets the breath out in a woosh and flicks his pointer finger outward. Richie opens one eye, just a crack, eager to see…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s shoulders slump and with a frustrated huff of breath, he flicks his fingers again, and again, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span> for good measure, until a kitchen towel by the sink bursts into sudden flames. “Oh, shit!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother grabs the towel and tosses it into the sink, running the tap. “Don’t cuss, Richard.” She tuts and shoos him off towards the table again. Wentowrth pats Richie’s shoulder approvingly, despite the obvious failure, while she starts on the pancakes. Richie sulks at the table, forehead on the wood while he sighs dramatically. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why can’t I get it right? I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>focusing</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Richie snaps his fingers and stares at the charred blot of smoke that puffs for a moment. He snaps again, frowning when it refuses to spark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It takes practice, sweetheart,” His mother flicks her fingers towards the stove, talking easily as the flame ignites without so much as a flicker of doubt. Richie glares at it, pouring every ounce of annoyance out into the physical realm. The flame wobbles once, twice, and then stays mockingly steady. “Have you been practicing?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie blinks, bringing himself back to the conversation. He fidgets in his seat, biting his lip and fiddling with the legs of his glasses. “Weeeellll…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d like to say he’s practicing, because he is! But maybe… admitting to your mother that practice consists of trying to light your friends cigarettes under the bleachers and set bullies' shoes on fire isn’t the most linear definition of practice. In lieu of an answer, Richie shrugs his shoulders and offers a sheepish smile. His mother clicks her tongue and gets to flipping batter on the stove. “You’ll never get better if you don’t practice.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s true.” His father cuts in, setting his newspaper down. He leans in towards Richie and whispers, loud and conspiratory so that Maggie can hear. “When your mother and I first met, she was pretty darn awful. Lit my mustache on fire when we first kissed and everything.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Went!” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie snorts and Went puts his hands up like a man caught by the authorities. He bats his eyes innocently up at her and shrugs his shoulders, not too unlike the way Richie had just done. “Now, now, Mags, I never said I didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. I’d say it was pretty </span>
  <em>
    <span>hot.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He winks over at his son, feigning a broken arm when Maggie swats him with the spatula. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Breakfast goes on rather uneventfully, with Maggie Tozier turning her kitchen radio on to the local music station, and Wentworth Tozier reading out the news articles in stupid voices. Richie is quick to finish off his stack of pancakes, washing his dish in the sink as quickly as he can. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And where are you off to in such a rush?” His mother questions, handing her husband another cup of coffee. She’s already setting up to brew the next pot, dumping the grounds in the trash. She asks with an air of indifference, but Richie knows an interrogation when he sees one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bill and I are gonna meet Mikey over at his farm.” Richie tucks his chair in and starts to head out of the kitchen. His mother snaps her fingers and waves him over before he can escape, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You boys be careful, and I better </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hear another whisper from Mrs. Holden about you all mucking around by the sewers again!” She points a soapy spatula at him, stern and serious written all over her face. Richie sighs and does his best to resist rolling his eyes, which is to say, he doesn’t try at all. His mom tuts again and puts her hands on her hips. “I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>serious,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richard, just because things have changed </span>
  <em>
    <span>doesn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> mean it’s not still </span>
  <em>
    <span>dangerous</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re not gonna go into the sewers, Ma! I swear!” He marks a little ‘x’ over his heart, adding his </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘at least not today’</span>
  </em>
  <span> loophole in his mind. He smiles his best boy scout smile and shifts his weight from foot to foot, waiting for his mother to relent. She gives him another three seconds of her signature glare, and then gratefully, she gives in, heaving a great, big, almost-as-dramatic-as-Richie sigh. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine, fine. Have fun-- Uh-uh!” She waves him over again as he tries to run off, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Maggie taps her cheek expectantly, eyebrows raised. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ma! I’m eighteen!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eighteen years ago I pushed you out, eighteen years I’ve been taking care of you, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least</span>
  </em>
  <span> you can do is--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, okay!” Richie cuts her off, swinging back around the table to smack an overly-wet kiss to her cheek. “You don’t gotta give me the whole shebang!” He waves at his father as he rushes out, eager to not get caught up in another time-wasting discussion, his mother still shouting out safety warnings and threats as he shuts the front door. He takes a quick second to thank the universe that his mom is a Firestarter and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a Telepath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie breathes a sigh of relief as he trots down the steps of his front porch. His mother has always been a bit of a worrywart when it comes to him and his friends, but he can only imagine how much worse it will get with all this talk of whatever the hell happened in the next town over. Down the block, on the way to Bill’s, he passes a storm drain, the large hole caged over. “No worries, right? Not like anythin’ll get past </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He taps the toe of his sneaker to the metal twice and keeps going. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s quite a walk from his to Bill’s, one that’s always been pretty uneventful, save for neighbor greetings and the occasional little animal scurrying past. Derry has </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>been pretty boring, if you ask him, a quiet little town tucked away from the rest of the world; If you looked at a detailed map of Maine,  there would be no pushpin marker for Derry, and for good reason, too. People don’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wander</span>
  </em>
  <span> into Derry, Maine, and when they do, they don’t just wander right back out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie’s about to spark a light for the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips when he spots them, curled up against a telephone pole on the other side of the street like a stray cat. They’re perched dangerously close to a wide sewer drain, caged over like all the rest, but still easily a hazard, clutching two big duffel bags. He can’t see their face, but he’s sure he’s never seen them around before. Around here, everyone knows everyone else, and like he’d said before…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>People don’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wander</span>
  </em>
  <span> into Derry. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother, as friendly as she is, would probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> approve of the way he’s walking across the street towards the stranger, tucking his cigarette behind his ear, or the way he approaches the still figure with only an inch of space between them. Richie crouches down so that they’re eye to eye, reaching a hesitant hand to poke a drool covered shoulder. The person stirs a little, blinking long lashes against dark brown eyes. There’s a beat of long, awkward silence as they both stare at each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t sleep next to the storm drains around here. Pretty dangerous.” Richie states matter-of-factly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Aaahhhh?!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> The person screams in response, jumping up and knocking their foreheads together. Richie falls back on his ass and the stranger rolls off the edge of the curb onto the street, right next to the drain. He whips his head towards it, as if something spoke, and Richie feels a shiver run down his spine. He shoots up to his feet and offers a hand, opening and closing his fingers when the stranger won’t take it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who… are you?” The guy just stares at him, big, confused doe eyes, curled in on himself like he’s taking up too much space as it is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My name’s Richie. Richie Tozier. And you’re not from around here.” Richie motions with his hand again. “Or else you’d know you shouldn’t sleep by storm drains.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dude looks between Richie’s hand and the storm drain, once, twice, and then finally, he makes the wise decision to take his hand. Richie hoists him up back onto the sidewalk, two steps inward away from the street. He opens his mouth but the stranger beats him to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“D-do you uh… do you know if there’s any hotels around here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, you on vacation or somethin’?” Richie pops his cigarette back into his mouth, pressing the tip of his forefinger to the end until it lights. “You alright? You look a little…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gives him a once-over, taking in the way the stranger-kid stands with his bags all tight against him and his shoulders up by his ears. He looks like a deer caught in headlights, or maybe even a rabbit about to get run over. He can barely keep eye contact with Richie for more than a few seconds at a time. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m f-fine. I’m fine. I just need to find a hotel or something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, there’s the Townhouse Inn, down by Main Street over there,” Richie points with his cigarette, in the direction of the main part of town. “But--” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Th-Thank you!” The kid cuts him off, grabbing the bag that’s on the floor and rushing off, without another word, leaving Richie standing there with an open mouth and a lit cigarette. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s frankly the most interesting thing that happens to Richie all day. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>It’s another three days before Richie sees him again, staring awkwardly into a clothing store window. He’s in the same, uptight looking little outfit as before, except today, he’s wearing a little striped sweater over the shirt. Richie tiptoes up behind him and slaps him on the shoulder, stifling a set of giggles.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, stranger! Woah! Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit--!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A rock crashes down next to Richie’s foot just as the stranger kid yelps, looking like someone just took a shot at him. Richie whips his head around, searching for Bowers and his goons. Those assholes love to throw shit at him, and being in the middle of town has never stopped them before. “Sorry about that, some of the people here are assholes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kid stares down at the cracked sidewalk by Richie’s shoe, looking positively horrified. Richie clears his throat to try and get his attention. “So, uh, I never got your name the other day? Or should I just keep callin’ ya stranger?” He smiles, fingers hooked into his pockets as he sways idly, and the kid just… stares. He stares and stares and </span>
  <em>
    <span>stares</span>
  </em>
  <span>, like he’s never had anyone speak to him for more than fifteen seconds. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s… pretty unsettling, if he’s being honest, but the idea of something new in the monotony of his life is enough to deter any uneasiness Richie might feel, even if that something comes in the form of a strange kid who always looks like he’s about to bolt. He’s only had two interactions with him, both excruciatingly awkward, without so much as a chuckle at Richie’s weak attempts at jokes, but that just seems to make Richie want to try harder. He’s always been a sucker for a challenge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“E-Eddie.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie blinks himself back to the present, brows raised to his hairline. “What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My name. It’s Eddie. Eddie Wh-” The kid, Eddie, clears his throat. “Kaspbrak. Eddie Kaspbrak.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie breaks out into a smile, shoving his hand out in between them, palm open for a shake, just like his dad always taught him. “Nice ta’ meet ya’ Eddie Kaspbrak. You remember my name?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie purses his lips and stares down at the offered hand, the same way he’d done the other day, hesitancy and mistrust written all over his face. “Richie, right? I don’t remember your last name, though… sorry.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tozier,” Richie supplies, leaning just a few centimeters towards him, giving a quick glance to his own hand. Eddie reaches out to grab it, an electric spark fizzing between their palms the second they touch. Now it’s Richie’s turn to stare, bug-eyed down at his own hand, while Eddie snatches his back as fast as he possibly can. There’s a shimmer of left over tingles that spread from his fingers up to his shoulder, a buzzing reaction he’s never felt from another person before. Richie examines his palm while Eddie holds his own close to his chest, like Richie’s set it on fire. There’s another heartbeat of awkward silence before Richie clears his throat and looks away, running his fingers through his rat’s nest of curls. “So, uh… ahem. You goin’ to church dressed like that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie tilts his head to the side, and for the first time, Eddie has the good grace to look offended, something that makes pride bloom in Richie’s chest like a dart on a bullseye. He’ll take a win where he sees one, and on a guy who can barely muster anything beyond a look like a nervous kitten in a cardboard box, Richie will take the prissy little pout he’s wearing now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Actually</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” He huffs, reaching up to tug on a stray piece of hair that falls over his eyes, “I was looking for some new clothes. My old ones are…” Eddie trails off, staring through the window into the shop. Richie waits politely for him to finish his sentence, but Eddie doesn’t, simply closing his mouth and keeping his eyes averted. Richie scratches at his chin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, today is your lucky day, Eddie Spaghetti!” He smiles as Eddie goes back to giving him his full attention, one of his eyebrows quirked up. “Since you’re new around here, I can show you around! I’ve lived here my whole life. I know all the hip spots, all the good stores…” Richie puts one palm out onto the glass of the shop, leaning his weight as casually as possible. Unfortunately, it’s the door to the store, and as soon as he leans into it, the thing betrays him by swinging straight inside. Richie stumbles to catch himself, deciding instead to lean against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> looks like he’s about to smile. Richie feels another set of sparklers tingle across his shoulders. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So, whaddya say?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie tugs on his strand of hair again before tucking it back over his ear, chewing on his lip like this is some terribly large decision. For some reason, the idea of Eddie rejecting him makes Richie want to bury himself in a hole and never be seen again, an intense level of embarrassment he’s never felt before, not even that time when he was sixteen and he mooned the entire football team. But something must be on his side, because Eddie looks up through those long lashes of his again and nods, smiling around his chewed up lip. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span> yeah!” Richie whispers to himself and pushes the door open, making a grand gesture for Eddie to step in first. He stares at Richie, who, for the added flair, bows at the waist and tips an invisible hat. He clears his throat again and starts off in his most posh, victorian voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And may I be the first, hopefully, to welcome you to Derry, Eddie Kaspbrak.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:,) one more and our set up for the rest of the fics is done !! ty to clay who made sure this wasnt a dumpster fire &lt;3 drop a comment drop a kudo tell me u hated it idc! ty guys for sticking with me!!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SOOOO EXCITED TO SHARE THIS!!!! </p><p>Drop a comment a kudos whatever you want! All this is based off of my art on my twitter for carrie!eddie au.... more to come!!!! Thank you to EVERYONE who has supported me thru this lil exploration!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>